Part 5

"Indeed saw I such a morning," quoth Goll. "I remember the coming of the deluge, and I remember the coming of Partholan and of Fintan and the children of Neimhidh and the Fir Bolg and the Tuatha De Danann, and the Fomorians and the sons of Milesius and Patrick son of Alprunn, and I remember how Ireland threw off from her those troops, and I remember a morning that was worse than that morning, another morning not speaking of the great showers out of which the deluge fell. And the deluge left only four men and four women, namely, Noe, son of Laimhfhiadh and his wife, and Sem, Cam and Japhet, and their three wives, for in truth that was the crew of the ark, and neither [church] man nor canon reckon that God left undestroyed in the world but those four. However, wise men truly recount that God left another four keeping knowledge and tribal-descent and preserving universal genealogies, for God did not wish the histories of the people to fade, and so he left Fintan son of Laimhfhiadh towards the setting of the sun, south, keeping an account of the west of the world, and, moreover, Friomsa Fhurdhachta keeping the lordship of the north, and the prophet and the Easba? duly ordering [the history of the] south. And those are they who were alive outside of the ark, and I remember all those people. And Léithin," said Goll, "I never saw the like of that morning for vemon except one other morning that was worse than the morning that you speak of, and worse than any morning that ever came before it. It was thus. One day I was in this pool and I saw a beautifully coloured butterfly with purple spots in the air over my head. I leapt to catch it, and before I came down the whole pool had become one flag of ice behind me, so that [when I fell back] it bore me up. And then there came the bird of prey[37] to me, on his seeing me [in that condition], and he gave a greedy venemous assault on me and plucked the eye out of my head, and only for my weight he would have lifted me, and he threw the eye into the pool, and we both wrestled together until we broke the ice with the violence of the struggle, and with the [heat of the] great amount of crimson-red blood that was pouring from my eye, so that the ice was broken by that, so that with difficulty I got down into the pool [again], and that is how I lost my eye. And it is certain O Léithin," said Goll, "that that was by far the worst morning that I ever saw, and worse than this morning that thou speakest of."

[37] Literally "eagle." MSS. reads "fiolar"--"the eagle," which is evidently a mistake.

* * * * *

Now as for the clerics, they took council with one another, and determined to await [the eagle's return] that they might know what she had to relate. However they experienced such hardships and anguish from the cold and misery of the night, and they could not [despite their resolution] endure to abide [the eagle's return]. So Maolan, the cleric, said, "I myself beseech the powerful Lord, and the chosen Trinity, that the eagle, Léithin, may come with the knowledge she receives to Clonmacnoise and tell it to Ciaran," [and therewith they themselves departed.]

Now as for Goll [the salmon], he asked Léithin, after that, who was it that sent her in pursuit of that knowledge.

"It was the second bird of my own birds."

"That is sad," said Goll, "for that bird is much older than thou or than I either, and that is the bird that picked my eye out of me, and if he had desired to make thee wise in these things it would have been easy for him. That bird," said he, "is the old Crow of Achill. And its talons have got blunted with old age, and since its vigour and energy and power of providing for itself have departed from it, its way of getting food is to go from one nest to another, smothering and killing every bird's young, and eating them, and so thou shalt never overtake thy own birds alive. And O beloved friend, best friend that I ever saw, if thou only succeedest in catching him alive on thy return, remember all the tricks he has played thee, and avenge thy birds and thy journeyings and thy wanderings upon him, and then too mind thee to avenge my eye."

Léithin bade farewell to Goll, and off she went the self-same way she had come, in a mighty swift course, for she felt certain [now] that she would not overtake her birds alive in her nest. And good cause had she for that dread, for she only found the place of the nest, wanting its birds, they having been eaten by the Crow of Achill. So that all Léithin got as the result of her errand was the loss of her birds.

But the old Crow of Achill had departed after its despoiling [the nest], so that Léithin did not come upon it, neither did she know what way it had gone.

Another thing, too, Léithin had to go every Monday, owing to the cleric's prayer, to Clonmacnoise. There the eagle perched upon the great pinnacle of the round tower[38] of Clonmacnoise, and revealed herself to the holy patron, namely Ciaran. And Ciaran asked her for her news. And Léithin said she was [not?] more grieved at her wanderings and her loss than at that. Thereupon Ciaran said that he would give her the price and reward of her storytelling; namely, every time that her adventures should be told, if it were stormy or excessive rain that was in it at the time of telling, it should be changed into fine sky and good weather.

[38] Literally "Bell-house."

And Léithin said that it was understood by her [all along] that it was not her birds or her nest she would receive from him; and since that might not be, she was pleased that her journeyings and wanderings should not go for nothing.

And [thereupon] Léithin related her goings from the beginning to the end, just as we have told them above. So those are the adventures of Léithin. Thus far.

THE COMPARISON AS TO AGE BETWEEN THE FOUR ELDERS; NAMELY, THE CROW OF ACHILL, THE GREAT EAGLE OF LEAC NA BHFAOL, THE BLIND TROUT OF ASSAROE, AND THE HAG OF BEARE.

PREFACE.

This is the folk-lore version of the last story, and it is very interesting because it lends strength to the assumption that the story may be a piece of pre-Christian folk-lore, and probably very much older than any documents. I think it is pretty obvious that St. Ciaran and his clerics were brought into the written version simply to insure the tale against any clerical hostility which might be displayed by well-intentioned friars or others who would say--"those are only foolish tales, let them be." But the presence of St. Ciaran and his two clerics would be sure to disarm hostility, if any such were attempted. The whole of mediaeval Irish literature is full of examples of such forethought.

This story was told by Joyce or Seoigtheach, of Poll na bracha, in Co. Galway, some years ago, for the Oireachtas. There are a great number of stories in Irish with regard to old age. A common saying which I have often heard, but with variants, is the following, which purports to tell the life of those things in the universe which will last longest:

Tri cuaille fáil, cú. Tri cú, each. Tri eich, duine. Tri daoine, iolar. Tri iolair, bradán. Tri bradáin, iubhair (pronounced "úr.") Tri iubhair, eitre, Tri eitreacha o thús an domhain go deireadh an domhain

_i.e._, "Three wattles (such as are placed in a hedge to fill a gap) = a hound's life, three hounds a steed, three steeds a man, three men an eagle, three eagles a salmon, three salmon a yew tree, three yew trees a ridge, three ridges from the beginning to the end of the world." "Eitre" has been explained to me as the old very wide ridges that used to be used in ancient times which left an almost indelible track in the ground. But my friend Mr. Hodgson took down a different explanation from Mathias O'Conor, and a different version, after "tri ur, eitre," came "tri eitre, 'eye-ar'." and 'eitre' he explained as the mark of a plough on land, and 'aidhear' or "eye-ar" as the mark of a spade.

The Crow of Achill is a bird that every Irish speaker in the West has heard of, but Raftery curiously made him a "raven." In one of his poems he says of a place in his beloved Mayo where birds delighted to resort:

Ta an fiach dubh as Acaill ann Ta an seabhac as Loch Erne ann, Ta an t-iolrach o'n nGreig ann Agus an eala on Roimh.

_i.e._, the Raven out of Achill is there, the Hawk from Lough Erne is there, the Eagle out of Greece and the Swan from Rome!

THE STORY.

In the Island of Achill the Crow lived. He never frequented wood, tree or bush, but an ancient forge in which he spent his time every evening throughout the year, and every year of his lifetime, lying on the anvil. And as it is the custom of birds usually to rub their beaks to the thing that is nearest to them, the Crow used to give an odd rub, now and again, to the horn of the anvil. At long last, in the end, the horn grew to be as thin and worn away as a knitting needle, by the continuous rubbing.

One night there happened to be a great storm. There came frost, snow and wind, very violent. The roofing was swept away off the forge, and along with it went the plumage and feathers of the crow, and the poor crow was left in the morning after that dreadful night, and he without a feather or any plumage on his body, but just as much as if he had been scalded with boiling water.

When the sun rose after that in the morning there came a rest and a calm, but the poor crow was afraid to go out, and [_i.e._, after] the flaying that had been done upon him during the night. "Oh," said he, "it's a long time I'm in this world, and I never felt a single other night of such bad weather as the night last night. It is my own opinion that there is not a single living creature in the entire world older than myself, unless it be the great Eagle of Leac-na-bhfaol,[39] and I'm in doubt but that the eagle is the older. I'll go to himself now until I get knowledge from him if he ever felt a night as cold and as venemous as the night we had last night."

[39] Pronounce L'ock-na-weel.

When the light of day came and the heat of the sun was right, my crow slipped off with the intention of journeying to the eagle. He was going and ever-going as well as he was able, seeing he was without feathers, until he came in the end, at long last, as far as the nest of the Eagle.

"Aroo!" says the Eagle; "O Crow of my heart, what has happened to you, or where have your plumage and your feathers gone?"

"Oh, don't ask me that," said the Crow, "didn't yourself feel the cold and ill weather of last night?"

"Well, indeed," said the Eagle, "I didn't notice one jot of the wild weather that you're talking of."

"Heavy was your slumber then," said the Crow. "I never experienced any night myself that was one half as venemous as it was--and signs on me! I am come now to you to find out from you did there ever come any night in your time that was colder than it; because I was laying out in my own mind that you are older than I am."

"I have no right-certainty as to my own age," said the Eagle; "but even if I had, I know that there is another creature who is still alive in the world and who is very much older than I am."

"Who is that?" said the Crow.

"He is the Blind Trout of Assaroe," said the Eagle. "Go you, now, to that Trout, and perhaps you might get the solving of your question from him."

The Crow went off and he never stopped nor stayed until he came as far as Assaroe, and he found out the Trout. He told his story then to the Trout, and told him that he came to find out from him if there had ever come a night in the world that was as cold as last night.

"There did, and a thousand times colder," said the Trout.

"I'd scarcely believe you,"[40] said the Crow.

[40] Literally "it's badly I'd believe you."

"Why, then," said the Trout, "if you don't believe me, you can go to an older authority than I."

"And who is that authority?" said the Crow.

"The Old Woman of Beare," said the Trout.

"I'll go right away to her this moment,"[41] said the Crow.

[41] Literally "now itself."

"Wait yet," said the Trout, "until I tell you my own story. I was swimming on the surface of this pool one fine calm evening, as calm and as fine as any evening that ever I saw. There were thousands of flies above the pool. I sprang upward to catch the full of my mouth of them, and before I reached back again into the water there was ice on the [surface of the] water, and I was jumping and floundering on the flag of ice until the raven[42] came and picked the eyes out of my head. My share of blood began running fast[43] out of me, and I was there until the heat of the blood melted the flag of ice that was on the water, down through it, and let me down into the water again. That was the coldest night that I ever felt myself, and that is the way I lost my sight. I was christened the Blind Trout of Assaroe ever since, but some of the people call me the Old Trout of Assaroe. Alas, my bitter misfortune! I am ever since without sight."

[42] Notice the use of the definite article.

[43] Literally "thickly."

The Crow heard him out, but he would not be easy or satisfied in his own mind until he should go on a visit to the Old Woman of Beare.

"Farewell, Trout," said he, "I must go to the Old Woman now until I hear her own story."

"May your journey succeed with you Crow, you will have neither loss nor hurt in the house of the Old Woman," said the Trout.

The Crow went off then, and he never stopped nor stayed until he came to the Old Woman's house.

"Welcome, O Crow out of Achill," said she. "What is this has happened to you, or where are your plumage and feathers?"

"They are gone with the big wind," said he; and with that he told his story to the Old Woman from beginning to end, and he put the same question to her that he had put before that to the Eagle and to the Trout--Did she ever feel any night that was as sore and venemous as last night?

"That's true for you," said she; "I did feel a little stroke of cold at the beginning of the night, but I drew a wool pack over my head then, and I never felt anything but moonogues[44] of perspiration running off me again until morning."

[44] Literally "little bog-berries"

"Are you very old?" said the Crow; "or what age are you?"

"I have no certain date with regard to my age," said the Old Woman--"only this much. My father used to kill a beef every year, on the day I was born, in honour of my birthday, as long as he lived, and I followed the same custom, from that day to this. All the horns [of the beeves I killed] are on the loft in the barn and do you remain in my house until to-morrow, and if you like I'll send the servant boy to count them and you yourself can keep account of them" [as he numbers them aloud.][45]

[45] See the story of "The Old Woman of Beare."

On the morrow with the rise of day the servant went up to count the horns, and he spent one full year, and a day over, at that work, and after all that there was only one corner of the loft emptied.

And during all that time the Crow was taking his ease, and there was neither thirst nor hunger on him [so well was he treated] and his plumage and his feathers grew on him again.

But even so, he got tired of keeping count.

"I give you the branch" [palm of victory] said he to the Old Woman; "you are as old as the old grandmother long ago, who ate the apples," and he sped forth from the Old Woman and went home.

THE DEATH OF BEARACHAN

PREFACE.

The following little story, taken down in Irish by my friend Father Kelleher from the dictation of Mary Sweeney, aged 82, of Coolea, Ballyvourney, Co. Cork, and sent me by Miss G. Schoepperle, who published the text in the revue Celtique in 1911, is of great interest, because it is almost unique as showing a point of contact--one of the exceedingly few points of contact--between Breton and Irish folk-lore. "Il n'est, que je sache, d'autre example en Irlande d'un messager surnaturel, tel que l'enfant mystérieux qui parait dans le conte qui suit," says Miss Schoepperle, truly, but in Brittany, she goes on to say, the "buguel (Irish, [uncial: buachaill]) noz," _i.e._, the boy or herdsman of the night, is well known. It is generally described as a little child with its head too large for its body, which only seldom appears, but which is heard to cry and lament in fields or on deserted roads. Its apparition is a presage of death. Lebraz in his Légende de la Mort has more than one story of its appearance. The salient points in the following story which seem to connect it with the Breton legend are: (1) The gradual growth in size of the being which was at first small; (2) the lamentations and cries which it utters, and (3)--most remarkable of all--that it described itself as a herdsman, and was a presage of death.

The Bearchan of this story must have been the bishop of [uncial: Cluain-sosta] in [uncial: Ui Failghe] (King's County) about the year 690. He was of the race of the [uncial: Dalriada] or Scoto-Irish, and was 21st in descent from [uncial: Cairbre Riada] who fought in the battle of [uncial: Ceann Feadrat] in 186 A.D. I have seen his pedigree in MS. There are about six other St. Bearchans, but so far as I know the only one who would have been at all likely to have attracted a body of legend to himself was this Bearchan of [uncial: Cluain-sosta], who was esteemed as a prophet and poet. Besides I find this very curious note in the Martyrology of Donegal compiled by Brother Michael O'Clery from the old books of Ireland in 1630:

[uncial: Dodhach Bercháin da friot go nuaide in Uíb Fáilgi i bhferonn ó Ui Berchain, an maidi fós timchiol an uisge. Ann sin atá cluainsosta agus ann sin atá tempall Bercháin acus do bhi,] i.e., "Berchan's vat has been found new in Ui Failgi in the territory of the Ui Berchain. The timber was still round the water [_i.e._, was still good enough to hold water.] It is there Cluainsosta is, and there Berchan's church is and was." So, then, there must have been some well-known story connected with Berchan's vat. The list of the great Earl of Kildare's library, which was drawn up in 1518, contained a "St. Berchan's Book." Poems ascribed to him are found in the "Wars of the Gael and Gall." For other references to him, see my "Literary History of Ireland," 210-11[46] "Bearachán" is the modern pronunciation of the older Berchán.

[46] See also O'Curry MS. Materials p. 412-418 and 432. Fer-da-lethe, or the "man of two halves," was another name for him, "because he spent half of his life in the world and half on pilgrimage ut ferunt periti." An old rann runs:

[uncial: Cheithri fáidhe Gasdhel n-glan feirdi an tir a dtanganar, Colum cille Moling lán Brenainn Biorra agus Berchan.]

_i.e._, "Four prophets of the clean Gael. The country from which they sprang was the better for them. Columbcille, full Moling, Brendan of Birr and Berchan."

THE STORY.

Bearachan of Glen Flesk[47] had a dream or vision that there was no danger of his ever dying until three kings should come to his house without asking or invitation. On a certain night they did pay him a visit. He told them that there would not be a bit of him alive in the morning. They passed a good part of the night eating and drinking away, and they making a jest of him [saying] that so long as they themselves were in the house there would be no danger of [anything happening] him.

[47] Near Killarney in Co. Kerry. But, as I have shown, he was probably Bearchan of Cluainsosta. There is no Berchan of Glenflesk in any of the Irish martyrologies.

They got hold of a big dabhach or vat, and [they put] Bearachan in under the mouth of the vat [to protect him] and they three were round about it.

He had not been long placed there by them when they heard a very clear little voice outside, and it crying; and there was snow outside, and cold.

They asked it, "what was outside and what it wanted."

It said that it was a cow-herd and that it was perished.

They left him outside for a good space of time. At last they let him in. He came in and sat down beside the fire, a poor little creature, and he shaking with the cold. They gave him food and drink, but he told them that he was too much frightened, and that he would not eat it.

They had a fine red-hot fire, and he was warming himself at the fire. He was a very short time there till he began swelling with the [heat of the] fire and growing big. He drew a little musical instrument out of his pocket and started to play on it. And according as the music was a-playing by him the others were inclining to weaken and fall asleep, until they [all, at last] fell softly in a dead sleep.

And when they awoke in the morning, they had no music and no Bearachan--nothing but his bones left bare and naked underneath the vat.

STORY OF SOLOMON.

PREFACE.

How Solomon comes into Irish folk-lore is hard to say, but I have heard at least three stories about him, of which the present is the most interesting. I wrote it down, word for word, from the mouth of Michael Mac Ruaidhri, in 1896. There is an undoubtedly Eastern flavour about it, but how it came to the County Mayo I cannot imagine, for I have not been able to trace it to any known source.

Solomon's name was better known in the middle ages in connection with the conjuration of spirits. "Für solche halbe Hexenblut 1st Salomonis Schlüssel gut," says Faust in the study scene, when threatened by the demon dog. Josephus mentions Solomon's power over ghosts, and a book of conjurations in Hebrew which was ascribed to Solomon was translated into Latin, French, Italian, German and Spanish. The best known German edition according to Zerfi (one of Faust's editors) is called "clavicula Salomonis et theosophia pneumatica."

THE STORY.

When Solomon's mother was sick, Solomon used to send a man from the village in which he was, to watch her every night; and every man who used to be watching her had to come before sunrise next morning with word to Solomon of how his mother was, and the first man who would say that his mother was dead, his head was to be whipt off him, and hung upon a spear that was above the Great Door. And they used to go, man after man, each night in their turn, and five pounds was the reward for their work, which they used to get each night. It was well, and it was not ill, until it came to the turn of a widow's son to go to watch the mother of Solomon; and the night that he was going to watch her she was very weak and overcome, and given up for death.

When the account came to the widow's son to go and watch Solomon's mother, there came the weakness and the sweat of death upon him, and his mother began to keene for him, because she had no one but him. And as he was going home from the day's work that he had, that evening, he was weeping and troubled; and there met him a half-fool, and he asked the widow's son for what cause was he weeping, and the widow's son told him as I am telling it to you.

"What is the reward that you will get?" said the half-fool to the widow's son.

"Five pounds," says he to him.

"My soul to God of the graces," says the half-fool, "but I'll go in your place to night, if you give me the five pounds."

"I'll give you five pounds, and something over," says the widow's son, "if you go there."